I,
debauched on knowing apples,
move little and despise my soul,
groaning as the Angel grapples my body.
Pieces of me,
whole in themselves,
fall over railings,
advertising tiny failings that build up into larger sins.
I cannot act;
the Angel wins by default.
The apples flower above me,
whispering to me about their strength,
and I can see how they make me sick;
their power,
however,
is the food I need to eat to learn,
to know,
to lead.
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